He saw her again. She glowed a golden brown that was half given to her by the sun and half by her own sacred skin. She smiled and said nothing as she let him follow her, her sandals making a ripping sound over the dirt path. He felt lost, but some invisible wire was mangled around his innards and he followed.

He could smell her. Sweat. It was that sexy kind of sweat that was not visible, but was rife with the scent of nature and pheromones. He grabbed her wrist. She was clean, slightly damp and her feet seemed to kick like the rooster that lived in the house behind her.

A bull stood nearby, watching and scratching himself on a sandpaper-like tree, thin and rough. Suddenly, there was no dirt, but an itch of green giving way beneath them. The sun called its retreat in the coming hours. Sweat. He could still smell it. Was it unromantic to want to drink it from ever inch of her? There was a drizzle in the field as he pressed against her. There was a crack and he was unsure if it was her or the sky.